


Bitter Weeds and Rue

by celestialskiff



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunnydale, 1997. Spike and Drusilla have just arrived, and Spike has a new toy. (Warnings: Vampire!Xander, evil vampires being evil, implied torture, violence)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Weeds and Rue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fall_for_sx. 
> 
> Pairings: Spike/Xander, Spike/Drusilla, implied past Angelus/Drusilla  
> Warnings: Vampire!Xander, evil vampires being evil, implied torture, violence

_Sunnydale, 1997_

The boy makes noises soft as kittens. Later, when my Spike turns him, he runs around the room, naked and slick, an otter, an eel, a shark. He bites a hole in Spike's cheek and flashes his teeth at me, and his teeth make me think of mushrooms growing from lush organs, new and white and strange.

He is so new. “Baby,” I say, and then I think of his sharpness, his sudden smell in my quiet rooms, and I say, “He is the slayer's. He's hard and fierce and cruel.”

“He's not the slayer's any more,” Spike says, “Horrible cow wouldn't ever fuck him. He's hard and fierce, though, and we'll make him cruel, eh?”

He has his hand on the boy's prick. He must be fond of this one. I look at his dark fingernails touching the white thigh, and the long hairs running from knee to groin. There are still human smells on the boy, sweat and urine and chocolate and honey, but he will smell like Spike before long.

“Look at his arse,” Spike says, “How could that stupid slayer resist him?”

I think about Angel's bottom in jodhpurs, and how he liked me to bite him below the buttocks, and trail my fangs along the crease at the centre. He would quiver beneath my mouth, and he would smell like leather and blood. I can imagine why the slayer didn't have time for Spike's new toy.

He has the boy on the bed now, on our bed, between the soft pillows and the chains and my little friends. They're gagged, my quiet, china mistresses, but they, like me, can watch it all. They watch as Spike spreads out the boy. He doesn't take him apart like I would have done, or like Angelus, but he spreads him out and takes what he wants.

New vampires are easily frightened. There are lots of things I could have done to Spike's new boy. Branding irons are terrifying because of how quickly their new flesh catches. And holy water is a treat for them especially because sometimes the dear little innocents try to drink it. And these days they're mostly not used to even the simplest of punishments: a bamboo cane, a crop, a supple whip. Taking the dear little new ones apart gets easier and easier and I miss Angelus, I miss my daddy, because his ideas might be even better than mine.

The boy's cold ejaculate pools on his belly, and for a moment he looks sleepy, running a hand over dark eyes. I smile at him to make him feel at home, and say, “Spike I think your little one would like a nice cup of chamomile tea.”

“Hungry?” Spike says, and the boy says, “Ravenous. I want twinkies and pizza and chili fries and...”

“No, you don't,” Spike says, and I laugh, imagining the boy gorging himself on all the bitter human foods and finding no fulfilment.

“No, I don't.”

Spike smiles. “Catches on quick, doesn't he, Dru?” He brushes his fingers through the boy's short hair, fangs sliding into place. The boy's teeth come down too, and he puts his hand to his new face, surprised by it. I watch them, the predators about to go and play.

“Be like cats,” I remind them and curl between the pillows. I take the gag off Lady Viola so she and I can have a little chat about them.

“Of course, love.” Spike is sorting through clothes. He takes a pair of jeans from the floor and pulls them up around the boy, sliding a finger between the cheeks of the boy's behind before he does so. The boys yelps like a child and Viola and I laugh.

“I'll bring you back something nice,” Spike says, and he kisses me. He tastes like semen. The boy watches us, suddenly sulky, pulling on the black t-shirt Spike gave him.

When they leave, for a time I am sleepy, and I hold Viola and run a strand of my long hair over my mouth and nose. I think Mummy is here making mayonnaise. It must be a very grand day if she is making mayonnaise: it takes such a lot of oil. I see her stirring and stirring and saying, “Darling, you mustn't cry when you see Grandmother in the church. She has met her reward now.”

I understand Mummy perfectly, of course. I am her clever little girl. Grandmother is far from me and Mummy and the rest of us now, lying under a blue sky, with kittens playing at her feet and honey on her lips. She smells like fresh thyme and she listens to bees and birdsong. I lie a while thinking of Grandmother so happy in her dear lace cap, and then I see the mayonnaise again and it is so yellow and so revolting that I break the bowl.

I am Mummy's bad girl and Spike's dark princess. I have broken Lady Viola—she lies on the floor in pieces. “You deserved it, you bad girl,” I say and I think in the future I only want blonde dolls. My life would have been so different if I hadn't been born with brown eyes.

Mummy met demons too. She knew Angelus and he killed her, so we share that. She ate mayonnaise and spanked me when I was sulky and let me sit on the sofa in her bedroom and watch her put up her hair. She gave me her rosary beads to hold and sang songs to me. I wonder what she would be like if she were a vampire. I wonder what she tasted like.

Viola's ear is still quite whole. “What do you think of the baby?”

I get up and stamp on her when she answers. First she is little sharp shards and then she is a sort of powder. Then I think about it and feel much better. “I will just go and live with someone else if he decides he likes his new baby more than me,” I say. She can't listen now but the others do. I settle among them again and they whisper behind their gags, secrets and stories and compliments and punishments.

I undo Miss Edith's gag and sit her on my knee. I am tired easily these days. It was something to do with a press of people and the crunching of my bones. My bones crunched so easily—like stepping on a linnet, or a mouse, or a kitten. Lady Viola said Spike was looking for a new dark princess because I am so easily bruised, but Miss Edith knows that the stars sing to me, not to him.

He and the boy come back smeared in blood and bruised. They give me a girl to play with, a plump, hazel-eyed girl who smells of cardamom and sweat. They've bound her hands and legs with rags that could never keep me in. I think of turning her, because if Spike has a new boy then I can have a new girl, but it would take such a lot of effort. I hold her in my lap and stroke her neck.

“I think she was in my gym class,” the new boy says.

“You said the same about the big one we ate.” Spike is sitting at the edge of the bed, undoing his boots. Hooks and eyes, I think, hooks and eyes—it reminds me of a song. It reminds me of a fish-hook in an eye. A fish-hook in a nun's eye: quite a treat.

“No, I said he beat me up after gym class.” The boy licks blood from underneath his nail. “He was OK, kind of lardy. Maybe a cholesterol problem?”

“Xander, you're much too young to notice that,” Spike says, laughing. “He wasn't old enough for cholesterol anyway. One of the reasons I don't eat the old.”

I tickle the girl in my lap. She whimpers.

“It's just strange to eat people I know,” the boy, Xander, says.

“Don't worry, soon most of the people you know will be dead.”

“Comforting.”

“No, it is.” Spike pulls his trousers off, and his t-shirt. He sits back on the bed, stretching his toes. There's a bruise on his ribs and one below his collar-bone. I like him marked, I like him bruised, though I am not strong enough to do either now. Sometimes he is still and lets me cut him, but it is not the same.

Xander is standing and still clothed, but he looks as vulnerable as if he were naked, as if he were tied and bound in a cell.

“He's wrapped in butcher paper,” I say, because he reminds me of a chop in a window. “Take it off.”

I don't know if Spike is listening to me, but he unzips the jeans and pulls them away from the crotch. The penis is already leaking, nestled in wiry hair. I can smell the pre-ejaculate, cold and coppery as blood. He takes his shirt off and I can see bruises on his skin too, a constellation of fingerprints on his throat, a boot-print over his kidney. He moves easily, as if he doesn't feel them. They will heal soon. The erect prick is very red, and is close to Spike's narrow lips, the hollows of his face. He puts his hand on the boy's hips and tugs him forward. The wet tip of the prick rubs over Spike's cheek, his chin.

I can see starlight through the open window. The stars begin to hum.

The girl in my lap has her eyes screwed shut. I pinch her cheek, rake my fingernails over her face. The skin breaks so easily, crumbling like a moth's wing. It doesn't seem to want to contain its insides. The girl gasps and cries and releases a stream of hot urine against my thigh.

How can humans bear to contain such heat?

“Watch the show, dear,” I say. “Don't move until you've seen the show. Such a pretty show, and all for us.”

“For you, princess,” Spike says, remembering me, and then he tugs on the boy's hips and the prick slides into his mouth. Xander's eyes practically roll back in his head—I realise he was probably a virgin before this night, although sexual intercourse with mortals isn't really adequate preparation for Spike's mouth. I watch his face, the expressions contorting it: I know he is feeling pleasure, but the pleasure is blunt and ugly as pain.

I twist the girl's hair in my hand. It is soft and smells of green pears. It would come easily from her scalp, but I don't want her bald.

Spike swallows. The boy goes limp, and flops down next to Spike on the bed. He looks over at me, though his eyes are out of focus. The girl whimpers, “Please, please, please...”

“Sorry, Cassie,” Xander says. “It's not your day.”

“Eat her, Dru, love, you need to eat,” Spike says. He runs his fingers over the boy's arm. The stars hum more loudly. “I'm going to fuck you,” he tells the boy.

“Gimme a minute first. I think you sucked my brains out.”

“You don't need your brains.”

Spike turns the boy over, exposing the soft skin of his back, the pale round of his bottom. Spike runs his hands over him, feeling the flesh. He winks at me as he changes his face, and slides fingers down the boy's back hard enough to draw blood. The boy squeaks and bucks. “What was that for?”

“Just wanted to see how it would look, love,” Spike says and licks along the first line of blood.

“It hurt,” Xander says. He sounds offended and unbelieving: I'm surprised because I know it hurt last night too, and that night before that. I wonder if it hurts more to be mortal than to be a vampire: I can't remember any more.

“It was a tickle.” Spike hits the boy, bare palm against bare behind, and the sound is familiar and intimate. The boy wriggles but seems less surprised by this. After all, skin to skin is nothing.

“It's like kissing,” I whisper in my girl's ear, and pull her silky hair back from her throat. Spike hits the boy again, and I lick the skin below her ear, tasting salt and cheap perfume, and then I kiss her jaw and the spot where bone gives way to the vulnerability of neck. Her pulse is loud, her whirling blood an orchestra.

I hear Spike's hand on his skin again, and again, and the boy complaining and squirming and joking. “You call this fucking?” he says. “'Cos if it is, me and my dad have had an even more screwed up relationship than I thought.”

Daddies are a sore point for Spike. “Don't want to remind you of him, eh?” Spike says, and I hear the boy yelp in a different way.

I look up from the girl's neck. Somehow now bruises scatter its surface. She's still making noises, words and whispers and whimpers. Spike's smearing lubricant over his cock, the red tip touching the cleft. The boy's bottom is pinkish now, a deeper red on one cheek. Spike is so gentle with these new ones, and so kind. He is not at all like me.

He bends over the boy, thrusting forward, and I watch Spike's face, the bright fangs, the eyes, the ridge of his brow. My face answers his, and I bend to the girl, and bite. Inside, the new vampire is mewling and the human is howling; outside, the stars begin to sing.

When I come back to myself, I'm lying next to Spike and the boy. The boy is sated; Spike is sleepy; the bed-covers are unpleasantly sticky.

The girl is an awkward shape on the floor, shards of Lady Viola licking her neck. “Why did you make him one of us?” I say to Spike. Miss Edith wants to answer but I shush her.

“Because of the way he looked, Dru. He was tied up and all hoarse from yelling, and he looked like life had never given him a reason to expect more than this, but despite that he still bloody hated it.”

I laugh. Spike is so simple. “You like the defiant ones.”

He sound defensive when he answers. “I suppose I wanted to give him something nice.”


End file.
